


To the Galaxy's Edge

by hellalien



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, what have you gotten yourself into this time peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:05:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellalien/pseuds/hellalien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Guardians are on a mission to stop a kidnapper, and they’re determined to see the job through. The problem is that the criminal keeps slipping through their fingers, so Peter comes up with a strategy to bring him down once and for all. Needless to say, things don’t go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's not super important, but my interpretation of Peter is a little different than his canon appearance. I wrote about it in [Alien Effects](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6451837), but if you don’t want to click that link and read it, all you really need to know is that Peter looks about eighteen years old despite actually being around thirty. If you’d like to, please let me know what you think! I love hearing people’s thoughts and ideas. I hope you enjoy reading this.

Peter’s journey back to awareness was long and miserable. The ugly smell of sweat permeated whatever space he was in, coupled with the harsh scent of metal and an unfortunate odor of mold and socks, which was just as confusing as it was disgusting. Nausea rose in the back of his throat, but he fought it down. He didn’t need to add the reek of vomit to the potent concoction perfuming his surroundings. 

Peter became aware of sound next, but there wasn’t much to hear. There were shuffling sounds to his left, likely behind a wall from the way they were muffled. He could make out sniffling sounds somewhere to his far right. Peter tried to process what was going on, but he felt too disoriented to focus on much. Was he sick? Was he dreaming? The sensation of touch followed not long after, and Peter really wished touch hadn’t come along at all. 

He was pressed against cold, crosshatched metal. From the ache in his cheek, he had been lying there for a significant amount of time, possibly over a few hours. His head buzzed with a splitting headache, one he typically associated with hangovers, and his limbs tingled like they were ringed with static. Besides the headache, Peter mostly would have felt fine. Maybe he had fallen asleep in a weird position that caused both his arms and his legs to fall asleep. However, the pilot was cued to the fact that he had not simply fallen asleep because his body _ached._ It wasn’t the ‘won-a-fight’ ache, either. It wasn’t even the familiar ‘lost-a-fight’ ache. It was a consuming burden that Peter really couldn’t put a name to.

It felt as though his very bones were protesting. His muscles felt taught and sore, and upon trying to cover his nose with his jacket sleeve--the smell of socks and sweat was getting to him--he learned that he had no ability to control his movements. The former ravager ended up hitting himself on the cheek surprisingly hard, causing his arm to tingle angrily and his face to react with a dull throb. The movement also made his shoulder feel raw, and he bit back a moan as the pain crescendoed for a second before falling back into the awful pounding that sang through every vein. 

In his pain-ridden, delusional haze, he wondered if he had fallen asleep on the Milano’s entry hatch.

It had happened before. Peter had been ridiculously drunk, but he had still somehow managed to blindly stumble to his ship and get inside before passing out. He had hated himself later for it; he had woken up with a wicked kink in his neck, a skull-splintering headache, and the urgent need to violently empty his stomach, but it had given him a sense of comfort to think that he was somewhere familiar and safe.

The comfort was short lived in this case. The taste of iron and something incredibly bitter welled up on his tongue. He didn’t recognize the feeling of the floor, or the smell in the air, or any of the sounds buzzing around him. He was clearly somewhere new, but he didn’t know how, and he certainly didn’t know why.

He could’ve sworn that he was just on the Milano a few hours ago, breathing in the scent of oil and ginger and familiar musk, lying on his almost-bumpy bed. What had happened?

Peter knew he should investigate, but he really didn’t want to. His eyes were leaden with exhaustion, and he decided to keep them closed for a little while longer. There was no harm in it. His earlier bout of nausea would likely be awoken with a vengeance if he tried to tolerate light and comprehend movement anyway. 

However, the lack of vision was lulling him to sleep. He knew he shouldn’t fall asleep, but he really wanted to, and his desire seemed to be winning against his need. He could feel himself slipping.

By the time he tried to act on the fact that he really, really shouldn’t fall asleep, he simply couldn’t convince himself to open his eyes. Outside sounds started to fade out. He slowly became less and less aware of the metal beneath his body, and the taste on his tongue was slowly becoming less prominent. He twitched his fingers, but that was all he managed before he fell into unconsciousness again.

_// Three hours later. //_

The second time Peter regained awareness, he was much better at staying awake.

“Ugh,” Peter said. “ _Ugh._ ”

The smells were the same, but he recognized them faster than before. Most of the bitter taste had faded from his tongue, but it still had a quality to it that he wanted to wash out. The sniffling from wherever it had been coming from had stopped.

Quill flexed his fingers, seeing if the reaction was better. They were still sluggish in response to his commands, but they weren’t buzzing anymore. His arm felt less asleep than he did, which was probably a good sign. The aching that had cloaked him had since eased, but he could still feel it. It felt sore, but it was now better than the headache, which had only become marginally better. He sighed, ignoring the way his ribs protested the expansion.

Finally, Peter deemed himself ready enough to see. He cracked his eyes open, just slightly, and blinked slowly in the light. It was dim, thankfully, so his headache didn’t viciously spike. Upon opening his eyes further, he saw thick metal plates in front of him, about an arm's length away. Everything was an unappealing slate grey, and after tilting his head to look above him, it was also fairly bland, with an air vent being the only decoration in the ceiling. It was small, but tall. If Peter were standing on Groot’s shoulders, he’d be able to reach it, but with the height he had, there was no way.

Upon inspecting the walls in front of him further, he saw that he was in what he supposed could qualify as a cell. A door frame stuck out of the wall slightly, outfitted with a simple slot-- likely for food-- and a panel that indicated the door was meant to slide open. From the look of it, the door wasn’t meant to open from this side. To get in, someone probably had to swipe a card. That, or it could need a retinal scan. Quill would have a harder time getting out if that was the case, but he could still manage it.

Grimacing against his body’s protest of movement, Peter made to sit up. He lay his left palm flat against the ground and pushed up slightly, giving his right arm-- which had been pinned underneath him-- enough room to slide forward and hold most of the weight in his upper body. He then pulled his legs forward and gradually managed to move into a sitting position. 

The process was easier than he had expected, which gave him hope for the future.

Once he was up, he checked himself. His rocket boots were gone, his helmet was gone, and his element gun was gone. Damn. All he had really been left with was a ratty t-shirt and his jeans. His jacket had been taken as well. That was… really unfortunate. 

Onto the door.

He first tested the food slot. It wouldn’t open unless pushed on from the other side. Peter sighed in frustration before turning to the door’s panel. The panel, like he had hoped, didn’t need anything as complicated as a retinal scan. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a matter of swiping a card, either. It looked like someone had to be buzzed in from a control room.

Shit.

Well, whatever. He’d figure it out later, once his headache stopped hammering at his skull. He wouldn’t be much good at an escape right now anyway. How had he gotten here to begin with? Where _was_ here?

Peter remembered that he had been involved in some sort of plan before this, but he didn’t exactly remember what the plan had entailed. Had getting kidnapped been a part of the plan? The Guardians tended to try and avoid that. Whenever it happened, it tended to be on accident and caused everyone to panic. Maybe it had been an accident, then. Was this even a part of the mission?

Damn, Peter hoped so.

There had been… a bar, but Peter was almost sure that he had avoided alcohol. Passing out and getting picked off the streets was unlikely if he actually had avoided getting drunk. Hopefully that meant he was on the right track for the mission, then, and hadn't just been picked up by some random stranger. Bartenders tended to hesitate on giving him alcohol anyway, unless he was in shadier districts, so depending on where he was, he might've been forced to avoid drinking altogether. 

Unfortunately, now that he thought about it, he _had_ been in a shadier district before this, so he couldn't rule alcohol out entirely. He had hangover-like symptoms, so he wondered if he _had_ had a drink or two. Trust him to make a stupid decision like that, and then get kidnapped for some weird reason.

Scowling, Peter rubbed at his eyes and sat down, pressing his back against the door. No, he couldn’t have had a drink, because this recent mission had been important, and he had taken that to heart. He had known that he needed to be as coherent as possible going into it, and so he had-- well, he thought that he had specifically checked every menu item before even going to the bar in order to avoid anything that could compromise him the morning after, which would presumably be today. 

Had he made a mistake? Had he ordered something that had intoxicated him without him meaning to? But he didn’t remember being drunk. When he got drunk, he tended to remember at least a little of being drunk.

Was he drugged?

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think back. That would explain why he couldn’t recall much of anything that had happened in the past, what he presumed to be, 24 hours. Hopefuly it hadn’t been longer than that. At least on the bright side, if he was drugged, it meant that he was probably on the right mission track, just potentially in the wrong place.

For a moment, he worried about what might have happened while he was out-- he really couldn't remember anything-- but he dismissed he thought in favor of more important concerns. The answer to that could come later, when he was safe and oriented with his surroundings.

He closed his eyes again. He needed to remember _something._

Try as he might, though, he couldn’t.

He sighed, and his posture slumped. The headache was showing no signs of letting up anytime soon. Alright then. He was going to formulate a plan, and then he was going to sleep a little more. It wasn’t worth attempting an escape if he wasn’t 100% into it.

He eyed his plated prison grumpily, toes splaying across the metal floor. The build of the place was giving him the vibe of either professional kidnapper or slave trader, especially considering the food slot. He was guessing slave trader from the general structure-- he couldn’t quite identify it, but the room just didn’t say “kidnapper” to him. Maybe it was because the room was bland, with no defining characteristics, and kidnappers tended to use whatever space was available, be it made for holding people or no. Kidnapper rooms, oddly enough, tended to have more personality, even if they were typically less thought out. Maybe it was because he had lived with the Ravagers, who did kidnapping jobs sometimes (such as that one time involving him), and their set-up was just… different. Peter couldn’t say how, but he knew that the ship wasn’t made to tailor to a kidnapper’s needs. From the size and sounds of the room, Peter also thought that there were potentially identical cells to his own near him, which would confirm his suspicions of slavers. Slavers needed multiple cells, kidnappers only needed one, usually.

Slave traders, then. He had been kidnapped by slave traders. Joy. The ceiling whirred above him, and uneven slabs of metal walled him in. He had dealt with slave traders before, and he thought he had a basic idea of how their layouts worked. An idea formed in his head, and he smirked. It was a start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardians argue over the best course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we're jumping back in time to learn the background behind what's going on. It's not the present! We'll get back to current Peter in another chapter.

“Absolutely not,” Gamora seethed, features twisting into a familiar expression of anger and something that might have been concern. “That is one of _the stupidest_ ideas I have ever heard come out of your mouth, Quill, and after some of the things you’ve thought of--”

“I always knew you were stupid, but this is pushing it!” Rocket snapped. “At least before, you had a small percentage of a plan; now you’re just grasping at straws--!”

“I see no straws present,” Drax said, perplexed.

Rocket continued, unfazed. “--Do you even hear yourself, you moron?”

“It’s a metaphor,” Peter supplied to Drax. He was interrupted before he could go on.

“I will not even _begin_ to list the issues that lie within your feeble plan. There are too many variables!”

“Variables ain’t even the _worst_ of it! The whole damn plan is flawed!”

“I agree with our friends Gamora and Rocket,” Drax rumbled. “This “plan” of yours is most foolish.”

“I am Groot.”

“See, even the tree knows you’re stupid! And he’s got bark for brains, Quill, goddamn _twigs and--_ ”

“Okay, okay-- okay, I get it!” Peter scowled and held up his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t like my plan, I get it. You haven’t even let me explain it, though!”

“Your plan requires no explaining!” Gamora snapped. “It’s--”

“Dangerous! Yeah, I know, but we’re running out of options here!” Gamora’s expression darkened after being interrupted, but Peter plowed on. “We’ve only got thirty-two hours until our mark vanishes again. We know that he moves periodically now. We’ve learned that.” He lowered his voice. “We know that we’ve only got this little window, and if we lose him again, more lives are going to be lost.” Peter scowled at Drax, frustration hissing in his tone. “More families are going to be torn apart.”

“Throwing yourself at the madman behind these kidnappings is not going to solve the problem!” 

“It _might!_ ”

Gamora pointedly moved her gaze to the Milano’s ceiling, gazing out at the stars above them while she tried to compose herself. Drax took her place in trying to dissuade Peter from his newest plan.

“None of us wish to have this man continue his wicked deeds, but we also do not wish to put you in harm’s way in order to stop him.”

“If things go right, I won’t actually be in danger.”

Gamora focused on Peter again. “Things never go right.”

Peter frowned, but didn’t argue.

“Quill,” Gamora said, “we understand the importance of this mission. We care about it just as much as you do. We will take him down.”

He squeezed his hands together, digging his fingernails into his palms. “We can’t fail--”

“We won’t,” Gamora said, voice harsh but imploring. “There must be another way.”

“There isn’t!” Peter exclaimed. “He’s already been-- we can’t--” The blonde grabbed angrily at his hair, boots scuffing at the floor, looking angry to cover up the intense desperation burning in his eyes. “We’ve exhausted every other plan we could think of. There’s nothing-- There’s nothing we can--” He struggled for words. “I’m-- We’ve tried everything. This is it, and... and we can’t-- We almost had him, but I… we can’t…” Quill fell quiet for a beat, hands shaking. Tension stretched between the teammates, crackling with vexation.

“We can’t lose him again. Not… Not a second time,” he finally whispered, voice straining to keep the guilty tremor out. “We can’t let him go a second time.”

Peter slowly slumped back into the chair behind him. His heavy breathing resounded around the quiet space.

“...You cannot blame yourself for what--”

“I _can_. It was my fault.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, voice harsh as he tried to keep it from cracking. “I should’ve known.” He repeated the phrase again, but quieter, to himself. “I should’ve known.”

Gamora moved away from the other four, fists periodically clenching and relaxing. A creak of wood sounded as Groot shifted uncomfortably. Rocket huffed, scrubbing his oily paws over his eyes, and Drax folded his arms, a frown creased across his brow.

They spent a few minutes like that. They only dared to breathe while their minds raced, thinking of anything else, any other plan. Nothing presented itself. 

Quill was the first to break the quiet. 

“You’ve got to understand,” he sighed, “this plan could actually work. I’m not just throwing myself at this blindly.” He studied his boots. “I’m the ideal candidate to play bait. We all knew that the moment we heard about the victims.” Peter lifted his view and attempted to smile at his team, but it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I look young. I’m charming. I’m relatively attractive.”

“You have strength, but not enough to be of threat,” Drax added. 

Quill nodded at Drax, smile wavering slightly. “Yeah. Most importantly, however, I’m stupid, and stupidly easy to deceive. Our mark should fall right for me.” The smile died on his lips. “I’ll get taken in, we’ll find the place, we’ll crash the operation. We won’t get a better opportunity.”

“...I was not aware he toppled onto his victims.” 

“Figure of speech, big guy.” Peter was too tired to explain.

“...Even if we go with your dumbass idea,” Rocket hesitantly bit out, “what then? Let’s say we miraculously see where he takes you, and it’s some prison-type deal. You’ll be completely on your own, and I doubt you’ll be operatin’ at one hundred percent. I guarantee he ain’t someone who kidnaps... 'gently'.”

Quill’s fingers twitched at Rocket’s word choice, but he ignored it in favor of a more important point. “I wouldn’t be on my own for long if you guys came to bust me out.”

“I dunno if we’d be able to get to you. That’s my point, Quill.”

“I thought no prison could hold you.”

“Breakin’ into a prison is very different than breakin’ outta one,” Rocket replied, tail swishing side to side. “Besides, it’s still a gamble as to if we’ll be able to track ya. If we can’t find where you’re bein’ held in the first place, this is all moot.”

“I am Groot,” Groot suggested, and Rocket frowned before turning to his leafy companion.

“No, I _know_ a tracking chip would work, but this guy doesn’t strike me as the kind to ignore the possibility for a kid havin’ one. Probably either has a scanner to detect chips or some kind 'a dampening device to mess with the signal. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gives his merchandise his _own_ tag.”

“I am Groot,” Groot insisted. Rocket scratched his chin and sighed. 

“Yeah, there are other ways of tracking this idiot. Terrans do naturally give off dead cells, which, I mean, _most_ organics give off that kinda thing or something similar-- hell, technical shit tends to give off flakes of rust and the like, everything flakes in one way or another-- but he would have his own unique thing cause he’s Terran. Probably.”

“I am Groot,” Groot declared proudly. The shortest Guardian hummed in a conflicted manner, shoulders slumping.

“...I mean, it might be too similar to Xandarian cells, but...” Rocket’s expression wavered, then hardened. “Nah, Terra’s weird. His cells would have to be different.”

“Boom.” Peter snapped his fingers unenthusiastically. “Problem solved.” He ignored Rocket’s muttered “probably”.

“No, problem not solved,” Gamora said. “You’ll still be alone in whatever facility he has set up. We cannot be sure we will be able to aid you, even if we find you.”

“I’ll figure it out when I get there,” Peter shrugged. “If I need to go solo, I’ll go solo. I’ve done it before.”

“If we could get some kinda communication up with ya, it’d be a lot easier,” Rocket suggested. _And a lot safer,_ was the silent thought that echoed after.

“There’s no way I could bring a comm. link in with me. It’d be a dead giveaway.”

“Well, if you’re wearin’ your helmet, and the transmitting function is off, and the comm. link is off, they’d probably just assume it’s a fancy helmet for when ya wanna traverse space without a spaceship or some shit. So when… when you get to this place, I imagine they’d take it off of ya and store it somewhere. Shit’s valuable. You could try ta find it and turn it back on once you break out.” After a momentary pause, Rocket continued. “It could also work as a secondary transmitter if ya turned that function on as well. Your helmet’s… much more refined than the kinda tech I could give ya off of your junkheap of a ship. Both the comm. line and the trackin’ signal should cut right through whatever shit he’s set up.”

Gamora tapped her chin thoughtfully, and Peter nodded slowly. “That… could work.”

“Good.” Rocket twitched his muzzle into a partial grin. He nodded, repeating himself with a mutter of, “It’ll make things easier.”

“It doesn’t solve all of our issues, though,” Gamora bristled. “What if you’re injured?”

“People don’t buy damaged goods. He won’t hurt me.” _At least, he won’t hurt me more than he has to,_ Peter thought to himself.

“What if he puts you in a cage?”

Peter shrugged. “The bars are never close enough together to keep me from breaking out of ‘em.”

“A sealed room?”

“I will open the door.” Gamora gave a displeased grunt, but didn’t protest his answer.

“What about the other prisoners?”

“I’ll free them when it’s a good time.”

“What do you define as "a good time"?”

“When I can get them out without them being hurt or recaptured.”

“And if you can’t find them?”

Peter grit his teeth together. “Then I will find them, and then I will free them.”

“What if you can’t determine the layout?”

“I’ll find a map of the layout.”

“And if you can’t find a map?”

“I’ll ask for directions,” Peter said sweetly.

“How are you planning on staying undetected?”

“I’ll just sneak around.” Peter matched his teammates’ dubious looks with a vicious glare. “I’m good at being sneaky when I want to be! I spent most of my life either around unbelievably bitchy aliens or breaking into facilities and stealing shit. Trust me, this is one of the things I’m _good_ at.”

Gamora pursed her lips. “What if you are detected anyway?”

“Wow, thanks for your faith in me. I’ll find a weapon and defend myself. By some miracle, I’m good at handling weapons. Must be luck or some shit,” Peter snarked, clearly upset with his team’s apparent lack of confidence in him.

“And if you can’t find a weapon?”

“I’ll fuckin’ _improvise_.” Peter’s patience had worn out. Gamora’s lips thinned, noting his attitude change.

“What if there are more guards than you can handle?”

“ _There won’t be._ ”

She scoffed. “There won’t be? How do you know? Quill, this is incredibly dangerous--”

“I know,” the half-Terran growled.

“--and you’re going in underprepared--”

“Quill--” Drax started.

“You won’t be strong enough--”

“You won’t be smart enough--”

“You’re not ready--”

“I know!” Peter snarled. His glare melted into trembling exhaustion as the team took a step back. He buried his face in his hands, leaning forward to hold his elbows up with his knees. Misery colored his voice, and his volume returned to a hoarse whisper. “I know. But we don’t have another choice.”

“Pete,” Rocket pleaded. 

There was no response. Peter kept himself completely still, as if by refusing to move, time would halt. There was too much running through his head. There was too much to think about. He was too scared and too angry. He was a thieving lowlife, but he knew what he was doing, and he was _damn_ good at doing it. He had watched his own back for twenty-six years; he didn’t need the only people he was starting to trust doubting his abilities.

He took a deep breath. Abruptly, he pushed himself off the chair. “Tell me when we’re five minutes out,” he mumbled, and then he exited the cockpit, marching off in the direction of his quarters. 

Pervading silence reached into the room. Diagrams brightly projected their destination, glowing luminously with a kind of cheerfulness that sharply contrasted the mood. 

“I am Groot,” Groot said solemnly.

“Yeah,” Rocket agreed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, i love hearing your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets kidnapped, as according to plan.

“Remember, nothing alcoholic--”

“I know--”

“We have hacked the security cameras in the bar, so we will be able to watch your progress--”

“We won’t be able to follow your every move, but we’ll follow as closely as we can--”

“I _know--_ ”

“Get your damn helmet online as soon as you can, because we’re all gonna be runnin’ blind until you do--”

“Whatever you do, stay undetected, we don’t know what they might do to those who attempt to escape--”

“I am Groot--”

“Guys,” Peter said, putting his hands up to stop the flow of comments. A nervous silence descended on the five. He licked his lips and then laughed softly, a smile curling onto his face like a wisp of smoke and fading just as fast. “...I’ll be fine.”

“We know,” Drax nodded, while the others looked on unconvinced, “but please remain careful, friend Quill.”

“I am Groot,” Groot declared with authority.

“Groot said that if the bad guys don’t kick your ass, he’s gonna do it. And so am I,” Rocket translated. “This is the last time we follow through with a plan as stupid as this.” Groot gave Rocket a side-eye, but didn’t correct him.

Peter scoffed softly, picking up on the undertones of stress coming from the both of them. He gave them a confident grin. “Thanks.”

Stillness fell on the Milano, and Peter took a deep breath. “Well. Guess I’m off.”

He turned to leave, the door hatch hissing open. He frowned at the weight of his boots; he hadn’t worn his rocket boots for this occasion, and he knew it was for the best, but he already missed them. He started down the Milano’s side, hopping the last foot to the ground.

“Quill!” Gamora called after him. He turned his face to look up at her, wondering what he had forgotten. She thinned her lips. “Good luck.”

And then she vanished back inside, door shutting behind her. Peter smiled, and then headed back out into the street.

The remaining four Guardians watched him go.

\---

“How are those cameras looking?” Gamora asked, head stuck underneath a handful of panels.

“I cannot see the cameras,” Drax replied. “They are in the bar.”

Gamora pulled herself out from under the wires and cables, gritting her teeth. “How do the images from the cameras look? Are they clear?”

“Ah. Yes. Quill is in the bar. Someone has seated himself next to him.” That observation drew everyone’s heads towards Drax.

“Already?” Rocket asked, dismissing the blueprints covering his screens in favor of pulling up the security feeds of the bar. Drax was right. A tall, burly creature with a solitary ring on his left hand had seated himself right next to Quill. He seemed unnecessarily close to their captain, their hips almost touching, and Quill looked a little uncomfortable at the proximity. Peter was doing his best to hide his discomfort, though, eyes bright and mouth moving in amiable conversation. “...Huh.”

Peter looked down at his drink, an amber liquid that glinted dimly in the bar’s minimal lighting. He drew it in closer to himself as the creature next to him leaned in, but the creature shifted away within the next heartbeat. Peter smiled smoothly, hands slightly loosening their hold on his glass. Peter was very convincing at playing the kid who wanted adventure but didn’t know the right way to go about doing it: cautious almost to the point of paranoia, but simultaneously dangerously curious. Both fit right into the unsavory crowd of the bar, and the Guardians weren’t sure if they should be impressed with Quill's acting skills or worried by how easily he pulled it off. 

Drax piped up. “I have checked this creature’s face with our records. He is indeed one of the “collectors” for the kidnapper we hope to stop. His name is Kn'aar.”

“At least that means Quill’s on target,” Rocket muttered to no one in particular. “He’s not just gonna get kidnapped for kicks.”

Through the screen, Peter gave Kn'aar an odd, almost concerned look, before a nervous laugh seemed to bubble out of his throat. His discomfort had clearly grown past just the proximity; the creature must have said something strange to elicit such a reaction out of him. He glanced away from Kn'aar, to the bar’s counter, and bit his lip before turning back. He knew better than to look at the camera, but the hint of fear was clearly noticeable. The Guardians glared at their respective screens.

The next few minutes passed without incident. Quill seemed to relax despite the earlier display. His shoulders were still hunched forward, his hands were still clasped over his drink, but the cup wasn’t as close to him as it could be, and he wasn't shifting in his seat as much. His friends knew from experience that just because his posture relaxed, it didn’t mean that he had actually relaxed, but to the creature next to him, Peter might as well have completely lost his semi-hostile exterior. He cozied up to Peter a little more, hands making gestures a little wider, smile wide, phony, and animated. Suddenly, Gamora blinked in disbelief, then brought her nose closer to the screen.

“I… I think he just put something in Quill’s drink.”

Drax had left, having grown bored by the slow progression of events and agitated by how he knew it would end, but Rocket, Groot, and Gamora remained, though Groot seemed to be asleep. Rocket hummed.

“Are you sure?”

Gamora was already rewinding her tape back a few seconds, when Kn'aar’s gestures went a little too wide, straight over Quill’s drink. While hovering over the drink, the creature’s fingers had parted, revealing a compartment on the bottom of his ring. He had tapped at the ring, the motion hidden from Peter and hardly discernible to Gamora, and then he had brought his hands back to his side. She paused the moment, examining the hand once more, then nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. He just drugged Quill.”

“And Quill just drank it,” Rocket commented as Peter swirled his drink and took a sip. He licked his lips uncertainly, as though the flavor seemed different, and examined the drink doubtfully. “Sneaky. I didn’t even notice.”

“That’s the idea,” Gamora said, side-eyeing Rocket. Kn'aar looked at Peter curiously, mouth moving to form a question, but Peter only continued to frown at his cup. “Children that are easy targets, such as children that no one would particularly miss or that no one of consequence would fight to get back, they tend to be very... sensitive. They know they’re targets. You have to find a way around their nature, a way to convince them that you’re not the kind of creature they should be worried about.”

The drug worked fast. It was clear that Quill was already struggling with the effects, blinking a little too hard and a little too fast. He looked around his immediate surroundings with narrowed eyes as though he couldn’t understand them. His breathing visibly lengthened. Kn'aar showed concern towards Peter at first, reaching over to offer what looked like aid, and Peter frowned at him, eyes not quite focusing on his face. When Peter diverted his gaze to once again ponder his surroundings, a feral grin stretched across Kn'aar's features. He leaned close to Peter’s ear and said something, low and quiet, and when Peter tried to respond, his words looked slurred, even from the screen. 

The bartender approached the pair, and Kn'aar immediately took up the role of an amused friend, gesturing to Peter and laughing. He looked sheepish, but also unconcerned, having completely lost the attitude he had shown to Peter. The bartender listened, uninterested.

“What's he sayin'?” Rocket wondered aloud.

“I believe he is saying that Peter’s had too much to drink,” Gamora responded, watching the video carefully, “and, as his… friend, he’s… going to help get Peter home.”

“Wait, how the hell can ya tell?” Rocket inquired, glancing at Gamora dubiously.

“I can read lips,” Gamora responded coolly, “and I know the language they’re speaking. I can’t catch what they’re saying when they are in profile or their backs are to us, but I can mostly tell what that creature is saying about Quill at this moment.” 

Rocket was quiet for a moment, turning back to his own screen briefly before raising his voice again. “He’s had a total ’a one drink. He ain’t that much of a lightweight, is he?”

“The bartender doesn’t know that.”

Rocket grunted. The two watched Kn'aar continue to talk to the bartender. “...Wait. Isn’t Peter’s drink specifically non-alcoholic?”

“...Yes,” Gamora confirmed, frowning. It was so odd for Peter to _not_ drink alcohol at a bar that she had forgotten that he was actually avoiding it.

“...Shouldn’t the bartender know that?”

Gamora creased her brows together, opening her mouth to respond, but then Quill's soon-to-be-kidnapper leaned in closer and said one simple sentence to the bartender. She raised her eyebrows as Kn'aar then searched his pockets, pulled out significantly more cash than was needed to pay for two drinks, and nodded in clear dismissal of the bartender. The bartender slipped the money into his pocket and walked away. Rocket bit his lower lip, Gamora folded her arms tightly across her chest, and Kn'aar moved to one side of Peter to help him stand. 

“What’d he say?” Rocket immediately snapped.

“... He said something that roughly translates to “Remember our deal.” I'm guessing that the leader behind this kidnapping operation has made a few deals across this sector that allow his subordinates to get away with a few things, which would explain why we have found it so hard to catch him. They probably pay enough to buy their silence and make them turn the other way when something... unsavory happens.”

Rocket growled, but didn’t say anything else. Kn'aar had pulled one of Quill’s arms over his shoulder and was helping him to walk out of the bar, though he was really just dragging him along while Quill’s legs flailed helplessly. 

The pair half-walked, half-shuffled out the door, and then Kn'aar pulled them into a side alleyway. The Guardians, having noted the convenient, disturbing alleyway and the potential getaway it provided, had hidden a camera there, and Rocket quickly tapped away at his keyboard until the screen came up for him. He then commanded the same screen over to Gamora, and she nodded in thanks.

They watched Quill’s legs give out, and his kidnapper caught him and placed him against the wall. He held a hand up to his ear, likely speaking through some communicator, and Peter glared at him, clearly trying to get his legs under him to get away but failing miserably. Kn'aar nodded, removed his hand from his ear, and turned back to Peter. Peter hissed as Kn'aar tried to reach for him, swatting at his hands and kicking at him. One of the hits connected, and Kn'aar straightened in anger, despite the blow clearly lacking in strength. Gamora tensed and Rocket’s fur bristled as Kn'aar’s hand came back, and he slapped Quill hard enough to knock him to the ground. Quill lolled limply in the creature’s arms as he picked him up and roughly threw him over his shoulder, quiet and still enough to potentially be unconscious at that point. Gamora searched the ground for any sign of the helmet’s earpiece, knowing that a rescue would be nigh impossible without it, but no glint of metal made itself known, meaning that, hopefully, Peter still had it. She glared at the screen. If he had dropped it, she would have deemed it reason enough to rescue Quill right then. She had wanted to rescue him earlier, when he had almost looked at the camera in the bar, but had she blown this operation, she doubted Quill would have forgiven her, even if it was for his own safety. He was such a moron.

At the same time, Gamora wanted this operation to succeed. She, better than anyone, understood the importance of making sacrifices for the mission, which meant that despite her feelings over it, she had to let it proceed. She couldn't interrupt unless she had better-than-good reason to do so. 

Rocket tapped out a few instructions for his computer, guessing at the most likely route Kn’aar was taking. The path traced him to a shipyard. They weren’t staying on planet, then. 

“Guess that’s it for now,” Rocket said, voice tight. “Hope Quill knows what he’s doing.”

“Do you know what ship he will take?” Gamora asked, devoid of emotion.

Rocket hacked into a security camera in the shipyard the pair was supposedly heading to, scanning over the parked vehicles. He spotted one particular ship that was small, outfitted for quick stops as opposed to prolonged space travel. “I’m lookin’ at one that might be it, but I can’t know if it’s the right one until they get in. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be able ta track it without someone noticin’. That could draw suspicion, and if they think Quill’s more trouble than he’s worth...” Rocket didn’t have to finish the sentence. Gamora’s lips twitched downward.

“You were talking to Groot earlier about being able to track Quill’s Terran cells. Would that be of use here?”

Rocket shifted uncomfortably. “To be honest, I don’t really think I _can_ track his dead cells. I convinced myself it would work when I suggested it, when we were desperate ta feel like we had some semblance of control over the situation, but… I looked into it, and unless we’ve got some seriously complex machinery I don’t know about, a Terran’s dead cells might as well be a Xandarian’s. They’re just too structurally similar to distinguish, at least on the scale of what we have. If we try ta follow ‘em, we’ll just end up trailin’ every ship a Xandarian has so much as breathed on.”

Gamora looked agitated. “So what can we do?”

“We can’t do shit but wait.” Rocket pulled on his whiskers. “Wait ‘til Quill activates the tracker on that fancy helmet of his.”

“We’ll have to trust Quill _can_.”

Rocket scratched at the back of his neck. Gamora abruptly got up from her seat, striding to the Milano’s exit hatch with purpose.

“Hey, where are _you_ going?” Rocket turned to her. 

“I have a few questions for a certain bartender.”

Rocket grinned viciously. “You’d better not leave without me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So now we're mostly caught up on what was going on in the past. We'll jump back to peter in the next chapter and see how he's doing.  
> As always, i love reading your comments and ideas, so please don't be afraid to leave them if you want to!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this came out late! I still got it out on Sunday (technically it's Monday because it's midnight where I am, but who's keeping track of time? Not me, that's for sure, I have a horrible sense of time) but sorry about the delay. In my defense, I did have to seriously edit this chapter, which is why I couldn't just post it and go. The length and content was a little wonky, but I think I fixed it. Onto the story.

Peter had decided that the air vent in his room was sufficiently large and strong enough to carry him, and had slept on the information. He had awoken to hear the sharp _shuff_ of food slots opening, meaning a guard was likely distributing food around Quill’s cell block. He sat up, listening carefully to the heavy bootfalls and slide of plates, trying to determine how far away the guard must be.

They were close, but still at least three cells away. Peter bit his lip.

He had some questions he needed answers to before he attempted an escape, but he wasn’t sure how to get them. This would likely be his only chance in a long time. He usually liked to rely on his tongue, because he had mastered the balance between being insufferable and charming and given time, he could get anyone to tell him what he wanted or do what he wanted. However, he didn't have time. He didn't know how long he'd been here, and he didn't know what kind of attitude the guards had. He was in the dark, literally and metaphorically. 

Two cells away.

In this situation, the guard could very easily ignore him and walk away. Some guards were simply like that, or had learned to ignore the pestering of prisoners. Peter would then be left without answers, once again, for however long it was until a guard patrolled the area or someone came by with food again. Quill couldn’t risk that wait. He couldn’t be here any longer than possible; he had to get out as soon as he could. The only other option, really, was to try and read the guard's body language. But if the guard didn't engage him, there was little to no chance of Peter gaining any answers anyway.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering from one side to the next. He didn't have any time to lose. What was he missing?

Peter snapped his head up. He was looking at this the wrong way. He had to get answers by _refusing_ to interact with the guard.

One cell away.

Quill hissed a swear under his breath and shuffled into the far corner of the room. No time to plan it out. He'd just have to hope for the best. He lay down, slightly curled into himself, and completely stilled his movements. He faced the door so he could see the guard's expression when (or if?) they peered into the room. Quill narrowed his eyes into thin slits, closed enough to look shut but open enough for him to see out of, and he took shallow breaths to prepare himself. Footsteps landed just outside his door, and Quill held his breath. He had to appear, for all intents and purposes, as if he wasn’t breathing, wasn't moving. If he could keep the charade up long enough, he could get his answers. He needed to seem, at a glance, unsalable. He needed to know how they reacted. If they took him somewhere, he could learn the layout of the ship, the protection on the guards, and he could formulate a plan on how to take the ship down before even trying to break out. His slot slid open. Peter's heartbeat was loud in his ears.

The guard peered into the slot first, noticed Peter’s form lying in the far corner and, without pause, distributed the food and moved on, satisfied enough that the prisoner was still inside. There had been no reaction to Peter's immobile form. Whether or not he was okay, lying in the corner as he was, wasn’t clear-- Peter had attempted to look as unresponsive as possible-- but the guard clearly didn’t care. Even after five minutes, the guard didn’t care. No medical personnel came, no guard returned for a follow up. Ten minutes passed, and there was still no sign of anyone so much as reentering the cell block. Quill sat up cautiously, thinking about the implications of the guard’s reaction. If he didn’t care about Peter’s state of health, that meant there would probably be no medical check at all-- they wouldn’t care about the results, so it’d be a waste of time and money to have one. Maybe if they reached a selling destination, there would be a test for how alive he was, but besides that, Peter realized that they didn’t care about the state of their prisoners.

It was odd, considering that it was a potential loss of profit, but if the cost of medical bills outweighed the price of the body, Peter supposed that there was some logic behind the action. At least, there was logic for slavers.

On the bright side, no check-ups meant less chance for interruption while escaping and a longer time period before his escape was discovered. On the other hand, that meant that prisoners who actually needed medical attention didn’t receive any. Peter sighed. It was to be expected on a slaver ship, and it was just the way things were. He couldn't spend too long dwelling on the fact. He needed to enact his escape plan.

He didn't have all of his questions answered, but it would have to do. He would have to hope, based on the interaction that just happened, that guards only came by during meal times, and, as slavers were cheap, there would be minimal meals, hopefully resulting in there not being another cell check for a few hours, at least. Quill had time, but he shouldn’t waste it. He stood, and approached the food. He needed to check it out before he moved on.

Whatever had slid through his slot looking thoroughly unappealing, even to his starving eyes. It hardly resembled food. His stomach growled loudly despite this, making Peter grimace, but after thinking about it for a minute, he decided that didn’t want to risk eating whatever was in front of him. If it didn't give him some violent illness, it'd be a miracle, to start. Quill also had the sneaking suspicion that the slop in front of him was drugged, and he became more sure of the idea the longer he considered it. He didn’t have a collar or any other device keeping him subdued, which could be attributed to the fact that he looked Xandarian, and Xandarians didn’t have anything dangerous going for them, but he suspected it was for another reason. Slavers always kept prisoners in check in some way. Some used chains. Some used handcuffs. Some used drugs. Drugs were effective, and could be easily purchased at very low prices if you had the right connections. The drugs didn’t need to be undetectable; a starving prisoner with no experience in the field of kidnapping would likely eat whatever was given to them. Visually, it needed to be invisible, but really, that was it. If someone took a bite of food and immediately realized it was drugged, it would be too late. On top of that, drugs were very influential. Drugged prisoners would either do as told or be easy to push around. He could be looking too far into it, but Peter didn’t want to find out the hard way that the food was drugged.

He turned away from it, instead turning to face the walls. He'd have to stomach his hunger and instead turn his attention to the actual escape part of the plan.

The metal plates that made up the walls were soldered together unevenly, the cells likely made from leftover materials. Some plates even peeled back from the wall, ideal for grabbing. Using the plates as footholds and handholds, Quill scampered up the wall, climbing until he was able to balance next to the vent on the ceiling. He only cut his bare foot on the metal once. He had handled it well; his emphatic exclamation of _“Shit!”_ had been very quiet by his normal standards. He ignored the stinging pain in favor of inspecting the vent cover. The screws in the four corners of the cover were mostly loose-- his trained hands wouldn’t have a problem undoing them. His deft fingers started to pull them off.

While working, he found his mind wandering. He briefly wondered why no one else might have had the same idea. Looking down, he realized that the floor was more than a body-length beneath him. If anyone in this cell had considered escape, they might have written off the vent because it was too far away, or because they had been unable to balance on the walls. It did take some skill to be able to stand on a thin platform high above the ground.

Maybe Peter was simply the only one capable thus far of getting into the vents. He frowned as the pulled the last screw out and placed it in his pocket alongside the other three. It almost didn't seem right, but he wasn't going to complain unless he got caught.

He caught the cover as it started to fall, but almost lost his balance in the process. Through sheer luck, a lot of desperate swearing, and strong toe strength, he had regained his balance and forcefully shoved the covering into the vent, controlling his slightly-wheezy breathing before jumping in after it. He hoped no one had been able to hear the clattering metal, but he pushed the thought aside. If they had, it was all the more reason to get out of there as soon as possible. He needed to get lost in the vents before someone could pull him out.

True to his previous assumptions, the vent carried his weight. He didn’t weigh that much to begin with, but it was reassuring that the vent only creaked on his entry. A nervous smile danced across his lips. Once comfortably seated in the vent, Peter repositioned the cover over his entrance, holding it in place while he carefully replaced the screws, the bars on the cover wide enough to let his fingers through. As the vent was high up, those who found an empty cell might not assume he had used the vents at first. He needed to cover his tracks as much as possible, and if that meant refastening the vent cover, he would do it. He fastened three of the screws and paused, noting that the cover was secure enough to stay in place with only three screws, and in concern for time, he decided to move on. He pocketed the final screw and shuffled as quietly as he could in a promising direction. 

\---

Unfortunately, the direction was not as promising as Peter had hoped it would be. When he had needed to "get lost in the vents", he hadn't meant to do it literally, but it was certainly what had ended up happening. After what might have been anywhere from five minutes to half an hour, Peter overheard two guards chatting, and stopped. He was curious. He had passed guards before, but they had only been talking about boring technical things and had not aided in his quest to get out at all, but these guards were gossiping, and although Peter hated to listen to assholes gossip, if it gave some hint of the characters holed up in the ship, the layout of the ship, or if it simply gave him reprieve from circling the vents, he would take it. He had thought he could guess at the layout of ships like this, but maybe he had been wrong; he didn’t think he was getting anywhere. His knees hurt, the vents didn’t move in an efficient way, and nothing was recognizable. A break was in order.

“Yeah, apparently one of the things thrown in here was a toy gun. How weird is that? Some of the new cargo must have just been carrying it around.”

Peter grimaced at the name for their prisoners, and almost shuffled away. This conversation didn't sound like it would give him anything useful, and he definitely didn't want to listen to it for fun.

“Oh, really? Isn’t it the one that’s got that that little scribbly symbol on the back of it? The one that kinda looks like a star?”

Peter paused. That sounded familiar. 

“I think so. Grey-white color scheme, two extensions off of the handle?”

Peter perked up. That was his gun. That was his gun!

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, boss tried pulling the trigger and nothing happened, not even a click. Said it was a toy, but it’s damn fancy for one.”

“Must’a been for some rich prick’s kid. They always like to pretend they can play at soldier, but they can’t even do their own dirty work. Buy fake guns and shit for fun.”

“Exactly.”

Well, Peter definitely wanted that back. The guard had said his gun was “here”, which he was taking to mean it was in the room behind the door they were guarding. Maybe their gossip had turned out to be useful after all.

He warily watched the shifting guards beneath him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to get past them. The vent he was following only veered away from the room, so while there likely was a vent in the room, Peter didn’t want to spend half an hour trying to find the right way in. He couldn’t afford to waste more time. He needed a more direct route. He’d have to somehow move them, and get past the door from there.

“You haven't even heard the half of it. Whoever brought the gun in also had a helmet, one that looks combat-ready. It unfolds and everything. Shit’s unreal.”

The guards had piqued his interest yet again. Quill paused in his problem solving to tune into their talk again.

“What’s it like?”

“Tiny. Built for a Xandarian, no doubt. Got its own little oxygen supply, but looks pretty weak. I don’t think it could stand up to an actual bullet.”

That must be his helmet. It _could_ stand up to a bullet, surprisingly. It hurt like hell because there was absolutely no cushioning, but it could, in fact, protect against a bullet. However, the bruise and subsequent headaches that came after were so miserable that it almost made one wish the bullet had gone through. Peter shuddered. He didn’t want to get shot like that again.

He didn’t want to get shot in general, really.

Unimportant track of thought. He wasn’t going to get shot if he didn’t get caught. Now he knew his most of his junk was probably in the room, he needed to get to it, so he had to get back to a distraction plan.

“What else they got?”

He still had the loose screw. In movies, the hero would always throw some object behind a corner in order to make a noise, and the guards would go to check it out. That would get them away from the door. Or, at least, it would get one of them away from the door. Depended on the movie.

“A Skrull military-issue photon blaster, uh... an ancient looking sword...”

“A sword?”

Then, the hero, who was hiding behind a blind corner, would catch the investigating guard unaware, knock them out, take the second guard out when they moved to investigate, and get into the room they wanted to get into. That plan... wouldn’t work for Quill. If the pair even heard a tiny screw dropping, and if they deemed it worthy enough to check out on top of that, only one of them would be sent and Peter was in a vent, not around the corner. He could not soundlessly take the guards out one at a time. Besides, he wanted a completely unguarded door. There was no way the both of them would go to investigate a screw dropping. There would also be added suspicion if he threw a screw, because why would there suddenly be a random noise? He really didn't want to deal with suspicion. It was already hard enough to be careful. ...Maybe instead of targeting the guard who went to investigate first, Quill could take the guard at the door, and then go get the guard who moved to investigate the sound, catching them both unaware like the heroes did...

“Apparently made in Nidavellir.”

“Where the hell is that place?”

… but their bodies would be discovered quickly, and Quill didn’t want his escape to be noticed just yet. The heroes tended to have a convenient equipment closet to shove goon bodies into. Quill did not have that. The bodies would be out in the open, asking to be discovered. Plus, their bodies would point to where he was, discovered or not. There was no way to move them to a different guard post. If the two failed to check in with their supervisors at some point, there would be an immediate location for where trouble, and that meant where Peter, was. Quill would have no time to find his junk. If Peter took the guards out, he might as well shout "here I am, at this exact location, please come recapture me and probably beat me mercilessly in the process". He definitely didn’t want any of that, either the recapturing part or the mercilessly beating part that could result in death if they really dug into the merciless part. Peter bit his lip in thought. He had to find a solution. ...He could take out the guard at the door and then simply try to get straight into the room behind them, eliminating the need to have one check in and limiting the space needed to hide a body…

“Part of the Nine Realms, I think.”

“Aren’t those planets off-limits?”

“You think that stops anyone?”

… but getting into the door would be one problem, moving the unconscious guard before the other guard returned would be nigh impossible, and the returning guard was guaranteed to wonder where the other went even if he managed to hide the first guard in a convenient broom closet out of nowhere. Also, Peter honestly didn’t know if he could take out even one of the guards at the moment. He was weak with hunger and fatigue. He was not in top shape, and he did not have his weapons. On top of that, there was still the issue of location. If even one guard failed to check in, someone would notice, security would know where Peter was, and hell would break loose. Peter wanted to bang his head against the walls. Nothing seemed to be working.

“What does it look like?”

Quill didn’t want to take both on at the same time. God, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to. It was a risk considering taking one. It was a bigger risk taking one and then attempting to take the other. Even with the element of surprise, he had no chance. Peter tugged at a strand of his hair. What was he going to do? How was he supposed to move them? He didn’t even know what the damn door looked like. How was he supposed to get in? 

“Hard to explain. Got all these fancy details and shit. It’s easier to look at.” 

“Then let’s go look at the damn thing. Been awhile since cargo came in here with interesting shit.”

The first guard lifted his finger to his ear, likely to a communicator. He didn’t say anything, though-- he only pressed one hand to a panel on the side of the door, and raised a finger to his ear. Peter narrowed his eyes. It was as though he was pressing two buttons. The ear device wasn’t a remote, though. The was too much delay between the guard clicking the two buttons and the door opening. 

But then, there was a hiss of air, and the door behind them slowly peeled open. Peter raised his eyebrows up in surprise. It wasn't a remote, it was an authentication system. That was why there was delay. A request was made through the system and the required door was indicated through the panel. Realization dawned on Quill. Someone had to accept the request for the door, but it wasn’t a computer because it was too slow. It was a person. A person approved the door’s opening. Peter wanted to laugh. Thank god for cheap, paranoid slavers. They wanted control over the entire ship with all of its corridors and hallways, but computers were too expensive and too risky to be given all power. They could be hacked or go rogue. However, if a person was controlling the ship, they could easily be controlled through money or threats, or both. But, damn, people were (usually) easy for Peter to take out, especially tech people. They had fancy equipment, but in terms of reaction time, Peter was much faster. If Quill could get to whatever control center processed the requests for doors opening, he could overpower whoever was manually controlling the ship and lock down the entire shitty space boat, no entry or exit unless he permitted it. Peter grinned. He loved when sudden plans came together. 

But no matter what was happening in the control center, it solved all of his problems in the moment: the door was open and the guards were gone, and he was definitely going to take advantage of it. However, his window of opportunity was closing and he needed to move. 

The two guards ambled into the room, and Quill kicked the vent open as quickly yet quietly as he could. The vent covers around the ship swung open and shut, which made exits and entrances nice and easy, and Quill took a moment to appreciate the fact that at least the slavers had tried to give him a challenge to escape in his cell. He turned in a circle, scanning around him. There was the added risk of being seen now that he was in the main body of the ship, but no one had noticed him this time. Good. He pushed the vent cover back into place, listening to the click as it secured, but the hiss of a door resealing caught his attention. The door Peter needed to get to was sliding shut, and Peter’s stomach dropped. He wouldn’t have another chance to get his stuff, not like the one he had just been handed. In a sudden burst of speed, Quill dived towards the narrowing entrance, hoping that he could make it without the door sealing on his leg.

God, that would both hurt and be horribly disgusting at the same time. He tried to quell the nausea that rose from the idea of splintering bone, spraying blood and warping muscle and tearing tissue--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, Peter, chill. We did not need to know about the gross-nasty leg crushing business. You'll be fine. (Probably.)  
> As always, I love comments and reviews! Please leave them if you feel inclined to!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to recover his stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a few months. That's my bad, and I'm sorry for the wait. I don't really have an excuse besides life is rough, which I'm sure everyone already knows. As it's been so long, I'm going to see if I can post the next two chapters alongside this one, and from there, I'll just update when I can. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Peter threw himself through the closing door, stifled a panicked hum as cold, rushing metal brushed against his heel, and rolled into the room, coming to rest behind a pile of boxes just as the room sealed. The door had avoided crushing any part of him, and he almost sighed in relief, attempting to swallow down his panic so he wouldn’t sound strangled. For some reason, he was having trouble calming down. He needed to make sure the guards hadn’t noticed him, but there were chills running up his spine and his legs were tingling and he really couldn’t bother at the moment to check on the guards. 

His heart was in his throat and he was dizzy with relief, dizzy to the point of hardly being able to sit up. Peter took a deep breath, trying to get his body under control. Passing out now would not be good, especially if he _had_ been noticed by the guards. He put his head between his knees and tried to block out the sharp metallic scent of copper that was not doing his stomach any favors. He focused on what he could hear, and became of aware of the low drone of a fan buzzing in the room, the thrum of the ship’s engines running below the room, and two pairs of feet slowly shambling away from Peter. An easy conversation drifted around the walls, and Peter took deeper breaths. The floor vibrated minutely underneath him, moved by the ship’s rumble. The fan hummed from ground level, muffled through boxes and weak overall, but probably just a way to keep air moving in the semi-large room. It must be a standing fan. 

After three deep breaths in and out, Quill lifted his head. He held his breath for five seconds, listened to the oblivious guards continue to shamble away, and then exhaled giddily. They hadn’t noticed.

Quill cautiously stood up and moved away from the entrance of the room, dividing his gaze between the floor and the sound of voices. He had to make sure he didn’t kick anything or waltz into the guards’ line of sight. He worked his way into a corner packed with some sad shelves bunched against the wall, and only then, when he was sure he wasn’t within anyone or anything’s line of sight, did he turn and eagerly dive into the boxes. He scoured them for the corner of a red jacket, a hint of a well-worn brown boot, anything remotely familiar, but unfortunately, the shelves revealed only junk coated with grime. 

Peter forcefully dropped some bug-eaten fabric back into its box, causing a wave of dust to rise. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, backing away from the shelf before he could sneeze and give himself away. His frustration was rising, which meant his caution was dropping. He had to get himself under control. He had had worse missions under Yondu, he couldn’t fall apart _now_.

Slowly sucking in breath between his teeth, Peter forced himself to think. His stuff obviously wasn’t among the unraveling blankets and shoddy baskets; the shelves were supporting treasures far too old to be his. He turned his head but only saw more broken containers, grey-white with dust. Maybe he needed to work his way over to the guards.

Barely lifting his feet above the ground, Peter worked his way forward, closer to the sounds of conversation. The clean swish of a sword alerted him to how close he was to the guards, and he silently kneeled around a pile of junk, peering out from behind it to observe the two morons he was sharing the room with. They clearly had no experience with swords, and one of the guards shouted in pain as a clumsy hit against the floor caused the sword to vibrate. Peter heard the action more than saw it-- he could barely make out their figures-- but it told him what he needed to know. 

Peter glanced back at the dusty shelves he had moved away from, then around the room in its entirety. It looked incredibly cluttered, and he briefly wondered what the point of keeping everything was. The potential value was limitless, but what was here was mostly untouched. Perhaps it was the idea that everything would eventually be sorted through, and if the slave company hit hard times, it could root through the junk here to find something important. For now though, it must simply be easier to toss acquired items into the storage room. Dumping it into space could lead to fines if caught, and serious investigation if they dumped something recognizable or of considerable value. 

Peter tilted his head to the left as he thought of what the implications for his stuff must be in that case. Items must be organized by when they were stolen instead of what value they actually held. His junk was newer, which meant it had to be near the guards, near where they had found the sword. 

Quill ducked behind the trash pile and slunk a little closer to the guards, his body low and footsteps light. Rough sticks and disposable cell phones were scattered around the ground, twigs and shattered glass reaching across the floor to grab at any passersby, and he picked his way around it all with a scowl. The guards sounded like they were firmly preoccupied by the sword, thankfully. In fact, it sounded like they were kicking it, angry that their failure to wield it correctly had led to injury. At least, Peter thought, it meant that they wouldn’t notice him as he dashed between stretches of room open to the light and their eyes. So far, fate was being kind to him. 

Finally, he found a relatively clear section of floor behind a towering file cabinet, and he crouched there while debating a plan of action. The guards were a few feet away, close enough for Peter to make out pieces of their conversation. He took a deep breath. 

He tried to poke his head out from his shelter, but frowned when he realized how jam-packed the cabinet he crouched behind was. It was bulging dangerously. There was clear stress on the side paneling, metal pressed out a full inch and a half past what it was safe to rest at. It was a surprise that the entire thing hadn’t burst yet, and Quill couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been in such a poor state. He had to lean out a little further to see past it, which was risky, but he found it was worth it when he caught sight of a distinctive red lying a few feet away from him, one that could only belong to his jacket. His helmet earpiece lay atop the pile of red fabric, and his element gun was on the ground a next to that. A pair of his boots were nearby, and he frowned upon realizing that they were his boots, but not his rocket boots. Odd, but he’d work with it. Some shoes were better than no shoes, as his stinging feet reminded him. Rocket boots just would've been helpful.

Quill dragged his eyes back over to the guards, noting that neither was looking his way. Each was outfitted with a mean-looking gun that likely doubled as a blunt object if the dent marks on their weapons were anything to go by. They wore matching outfits, thick vests buckled around their chests and cargo pants loosely hanging from their hips. Both seemed to have muscular builds, the kind that could overpower Peter in is current state with laughable ease. He either needed to outsmart them or avoid them entirely. 

Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever was going to happen next. 

Fate abruptly decided it was done being kind to Peter, and with only a split-second creak of warning, the back of the file cabinet Peter crouched behind gave with a splitting shriek. Quill was suddenly scrambling back to avoid getting decked in the face by a giant metal panel, and said panel fell to the ground with an earth-shattering _crash_ , still hitting him on the way down. Pressure finally relieved, old papers gushed from the cabinet like blood from a fresh wound, hissing against the floor. The room became very, very quiet, and Peter realized, guts feeling as though they had just been flash-frozen, that he was in plain sight of the two guards. His breath caught as his eyes darted to them, and he did not feel any better as an unsettling grin stretched across the face of one of the two, both creatures fixated on Peter.

“...That cabinet finally break?” one of the guards questioned, narrowing its five eyes at Peter.

“Appears so. At a rather opportune moment too, I’d say.”

The click of gun safeties coming off alerted Quill that he needed to _move his ass into action that instant_ , and so he sprang up to his feet, metal panel hissing against the ground as it was pushed off of him, and pressed his back against the cabinet, ignoring the shuffling papers that scattered as he scrambled up. A laugh barked from behind him. The fact that he was finding cover with the two of them so close was fairly futile, but it wasn’t like he was just going to let them get their hands on him without a fight. 

“That’s right, kid. Make this a little fun.”

Quill grimaced. He did not like that tone of voice. 

He could hear their footsteps unhurriedly approaching the cabinet which was still sluggishly bleeding papers, and Peter clenched his hands into fists.

“Y’know, what would make this even more interesting is if you handed me a gun.”

Everything on the ship seemed to have an asshole quality, even inanimate objects, so Peter thought he was taking a fairly educated risk in assuming the guard would humor him with conversation. He glanced at the ground and noticed a screwdriver.

A snort of a laugh followed his statement, and Peter bent down to pick the screwdriver up.

“You think I’m that much of a moron that I’d give you a loaded weapon?”

“No,” Peter said carefully, but he was interrupted as the guard continued.

“You’re thinking of this the wrong way. I’m thinking what comes _between_ us throwing us in your cell is what’s gonna make this interesting. You have a little defiance.” Peter bit his cheek, sliding into a crouch and trying to figure out which side he was going to be approached from. “I like that. _That’s_ what makes things interesting. You’re a weak little bitch, recapturing you isn’t going to have any thrill, but what I’m gonna do to you--” The cabinet shuddered as the guard threw his weight against it, and Peter dived forward as it toppled backwards. He turned to see the guard with multiple eyes closing in, gun raised, on his left, and the grinning guard advancing confidently on his right. Tensing, Quill noted that the grinning guard didn’t have his firearm out, which made this considerably easier.

Eyes still on the grinning guard, he pushed off the ground in a leap, but he angled himself to tackle the guard on the left. Five-Eyes fired two shots at where Peter would have been had he actually dived at the creepy guard, and Quill couldn’t help but smirk. He had anticipated the guards taking the obvious cues he was giving instead of picking up on the subtle ones-- watching where his eyes looked instead of how his legs bunched-- which meant it was almost laughably easy to stab Five-Eyes with the screwdriver as he was completely unprepared for the timing and speed of the attack. The creature’s shriek of agony wasn’t music to Peter’s ears, and he definitely didn't enjoy the gushing black blood that painted his hands, but it was nice to hear the creepy tone of the second guard’s voice melt into fury. His voice had been seriously unsettling before, but now he was just shouting, and Peter could deal with anger. 

Quill rolled forward, pushing off of Five-Eyes and directing himself towards his element gun. If he could get his hands on it, he’d be in good shape. 

A sharp pain lanced through Peter’s calf once, twice, but he grabbed his gun, whirled around, and forcefully pulled the trigger, snickering out a hail of cold bullets in a wide spray. A curse spat out of one of the guard's mouths and there was the sound of desperate scrambling. Peter landed awkwardly on his side, wheezing as he tried to pull himself up, and curled into a sitting position. 

When he glanced back, Five-Eyes was still, hopefully for good. The screwdriver was still firmly embedded in his face, and more blood pooling around his body told Peter that his sporadic spray of bullets had managed to catch Five-Eyes a few more times. He wouldn't be getting back up. 

However, the creepy guard had managed to dive behind a trash pile in order to avoid getting shot. Peter took a deep breath and scrubbed his face with the hand that wasn’t clenching his element gun tightly, fingers holding it as though it could slide from his grasp like a fistful of sand. He needed to move into a better position. He was practically out in the open, so he shot a few more icy bullets towards the trash piles, trying to discourage the guard from attempting to mow Quill down while he had the advantage of cover, snatched at his jacket and helmet, stood, and sprinted to a shelving unit covered with heavy-duty boxes. They should help protect him for gunfire, as long as they weren't explosive. His heart pounded. 

He'd have to get his boots and gun holster later. 

Peter first pushed the earpiece for his helmet into his ear, relief pooling in his stomach at the familiar feeling of it, and he flicked the command for expansion and immediately tested out the communications line. As static droned into his ear, he pulled on his jacket, reveling in the comfort of the thick leather. 

The line didn’t sound like it was being jammed, so he hesitantly whispered, “Anybody there?” 

A crackle of static bit into his ear, and for a moment, Peter was afraid that the signal just wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t sure what to do next. The guard sounded like he was getting up and-- shit, he would probably contact the control center to inform them of the escapee, and he really didn’t want that to happen. If ten more guards stormed the storage room, Peter would die. He whipped out from behind his corner, spotted the guard impatiently scanning around for him, and shot three bullets. Unfortunately, adrenaline was throwing off his aim, and his first shot went wide, alerting the guard to the attack and Quill’s position. Fortunately, a chorus of familiar voices assaulted his hearing.

“Peter!”

“Where the fuck have you--”

“I am _Groot!_ ”

“What took you so long--”

“Woah, hey guys,” Peter said, grin audible in his voice. He ducked behind his cover as the guard started firing at him. “Miss me?”


End file.
